


Gone Fishin'

by Anonymous



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: A does not realize that they are in love with B, Conversations, M/M, Mistaking pining for platonic admiration, Pining John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 13:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20192743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: John wants to talk about the kidnapping. Harold does not. The Machine intercedes.





	Gone Fishin'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArgylePirateWD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/gifts).

“You know, you owe me a lot more than just a lunch.”

“Consider this a down payment,” John answered, his face relaxed as he watched the door, watched the working staff, and watched Detective Joss Carter settle into the booth opposite him.

She cast a disparaging eye around the empty cafe and sniffed. “It’s going to take me days to file the paperwork on Massey and Cavanaugh. A crusty little club sandwich is not gonna’ cut it, John,” she said, shooting him a mischievous smile, “Next time, _I _pick the lunch spot.”

A slow smile spread over John’s face as he accepted the charges. She was right. Joss had put in a lot of time helping them try to save Riley Cavanaugh and she had bent a few of her moral and professional boundaries along the way to offer that help. The least he could do was make sure she was well fed as he led her down the pathway of deviant behavior. “You got it, Detective,” he said, still smiling as he slid one of the plastic-sheathed menus across the table.

“So, John,” she began, a playful note in her voice as she skimmed the menu options, “what do you and your friend need this time?”

“Today?” he said with feigned innocence. “Nothing today, Detective. Thought I’d treat myself to a nice lunch with good company.”

Joss arched a doubtful brow at him. “Nothing? How often does that happen?”

The waitress came over to their booth, interrupting the conversation long enough for Joss to order a salad and coffee. John added a ham on rye plus a refill for his now empty coffee. The waitress turned for the kitchen. Joss picked up the questions.

“So, what do you mean, _nothing_?”

“I mean nothing. Work-related.” John dropped his eyes away and busied himself with collecting the menus and placing them back in their wire holder. “I had another reason for calling you,” he said after a beat. He saw the security camera above the front door move. He shifted slightly in the booth, feeling the weight of the disabled phone in his jacket. “I need some advice. About a friend.”

“Finch?”

He nodded tightly.

“No luck getting him to talk about what happened when he was with Root?”

“I tried. Convinced him to come out for a beer with me, to get him out of the office if nothing else.”

“And?”

John shook his head slowly. “We talked about international diplomacy. He complained about Bear. We watched an inning of the Giants and Cardinals game. He finished his tea, and then he and Bear went home.”

The waitress returned with their drinks.

“John, I don’t exactly know how your … _thing _works, but maybe he just needs some time to process it all?” She made a show of casually pulling a sugar packet from the tray and tearing it open into her coffee. “Maybe he should take some time off? Spend some time with his family?”

John flashed a quick, knowing smile at her. He admired her dogged hunt for answers, but today he had enough on his plate without her less-than-subtle probing. Besides, John still hadn’t even figured out where Finch lived, let alone family—outside of Grace.

“No, work gives him something to do, which he needs,” John said. “The thing is…” He broke off and took a deep breath. He had to tread lightly, both to protect Finch’s privacy and to maintain his facade of platonic concern. Harold Finch was making _some_ progress.

Slow progress.

He was coming around to Bear, more importantly, he was beginning to take longer trips to the outside with the dog. He’d made enough progress to physically take part in protecting Riley. A few more professional and—pretty fucked up after John spent time thinking about it—moral boundaries bent.

What made John different, in Finch’s eyes, to the _bad code _that was as deeply hard-wired in him as it had been in Riley?

“Whatever is going on with him, he’s not talking, and I don’t know how to bring him back around,” John said finally, his voice low.

Joss watched him closely for a few seconds. “If he won’t talk about it, maybe _you _should?”

“Hmm?”

“John, you went out of your ever-loving mind when Root kidnapped him. Try talking to him about _that_? Let him know he’s not alone in whatever he’s dealing with.”

He loosened his tight grip on his coffee mug. She could be on to something, he realized with a start. He had been so focused on trying to make Finch feel comfortable that he hadn’t even taken the time to unpack his own feelings about the kidnapping.

He remembered the sick pressure in his stomach when he returned to the water treatment plant and found Corwin’s corpse but no sign of Finch. He remembered the flutter of panic and the raw anger as he confronted Finch’s machine for help.

John swallowed and dropped his eyes down to his black coffee, remembering every moment. Harold Finch had given him a purpose and thanks to Finch, John had become someone different—bad code with a calling.

The restaurant door swung open. John glanced up to see a uniformed FedEx driver step inside. She stopped at the hostess stand for a moment to chat, smiled, turned, and made a beeline for their booth. John straightened in his seat and slid his hand down to his gun.

“Joss Carter?” The driver asked.

Joss shot a look across the table before answering. “Yes?”

The woman held out a large envelope. “This fax came in for you a few minutes ago.”

“Came in _where?_”

“The copy and print center down the street,” the woman said, offering the envelope.

“And how did you know I was here?”

The woman tapped her finger against the printed label affixed to the envelope and pushed it forward again. “Look, ma’am, I’ve got to get back to my route...”

“Here,” John said, holding his hand open.

“Thanks.” The driver passed off the envelope then left to get back to the rest of her deliveries.

“What the hell, John?”

John turned the envelope over in his hands, inspecting the closure, then the label. “It’s addressed to you.” He pulled his knife from his pocket and flicked it open. “May I?”

The restaurant door swung open and John and Joss both turned to look. A uniformed DHL driver stepped inside. He stopped at the hostess stand for a moment to chat, smiled, turned, and made a beeline for their booth.

“John Hayes?”

“Yes?”

“Great! This is for you.” The driver pulled a small envelope from his delivery pouch and handed it to John.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Have a great day!”

“What. The. Hell!”

Frowning, eyes furrowed, John turned so that his body was facing out of the booth and slit the first envelope open. He turned it on end and shook the contents onto the tiled floor: a facsimile copy of a photograph and what looked like the first few pages of a police report spilled out. Plucking a napkin from the tabletop dispenser, he covered his fingers and leaned down to retrieve the papers.

“Oliver Westcott,” he read aloud. “Age 34, assault and battery, aggravated assault, assault with a deadly…”

“Let me see that,” Joss said. She scanned the report then the photo. “I know this guy. I brought him in for questioning on a gang hit a few months ago.”

“An anonymous tip?”

“I don’t know what it is,” she said as she stuffed the papers back into the envelope. “But I’m damned sure going to find out.”

“Right now?”

“Somebody went through all the trouble of getting this to me. And I’m guessing it wasn’t you?”

Confused, John shook his head.

She crammed the papers into her purse. “Your turn. What’s in your envelope?”

John lifted the smaller envelope and gave it a quick once-over. Like the first one, there was no stamp or return address. The computer printed label simply read with the Hayes alias and the diner’s address. He jammed his knife under the flap and cut it open. Inside was an innocuous sheet of paper, another fax. It was folded in thirds and when he unfolded it, two photocopied coupons for “10% off bait and tackle” fluttered free.

Joss picked up one of the coupons to read while John tried to make sense of the fax. “It’s a receipt,” he mumbled.

“And you said nothing was going on. Sounds like Finch has us all on work therapy today.” Joss dropped the coupons back to the table then turned to wave the waitress over. “We’ll take that food to go. Separate bags, and _he’ll _take the check.”

*****

“Detective Fusco, I can assure you that I did not send a bike messenger to the falafel cart. Why would I do that?”

John could hear the conversation as he approached the gate leading into the inner sanctum of the library. He stopped when he caught sight of Finch pacing the floor with his phone to his ear. He listened. He watched. His partner was dressed down in drab shirtsleeves and a dull brown tie—his wardrobe of choice, it seemed, since the kidnapping. He hadn’t figured out where Finch lived, but he had a strong feeling that wherever that was, Finch hadn’t been back there in a while. John missed the ornate suits and tastefully outlandish waistcoats that strapped snug over the curve of Finch’s belly.

“I agree, Detective. Our mutual friend would be more likely to contact you using more conventional means. So, it stands to reason, he didn’t send a bike messenger either.” Harold’s pacing had taken him near the rolling cork crime board that he had created for himself based on John’s work in Texas, along with a few cryptic notes and maps of his own that he hadn’t cared to brief John on yet. Harold quickly turned and set off on a new path away from it.

Lying in his soft bed set beside the desk, Bear watched Harold pace. After a while, he broke his gaze and yawned but as he turned his head to pick up Harold’s trail again, something new caught his attention. Bear’s ears pricked up when he saw John lingering in the hallway. The dog uncurled from his bed and bounded across the room to greet him _and_ the take-out bag in his hand.

“Detective, please stop,” Harold said in a weary voice. “You say you have a name, phone number, and address, yes? In that case, might I suggest that you do what it is that you do, Detective? _Investigate._” Harold disconnected the call and sighed.

“Lionel?” John asked, still scratching the top of Bear’s head as he walked into the room.

“Yes,” Harold answered, sliding his fingers under the rim of his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. I presume you caught the gist of it. Did you send him a number via bike messenger?”

“Did you send Carter a number via FedEx?” John countered.

“What?”

“What about this?” He left off with Bear for a moment to pull the envelope from his pocket and hand it over.

Harold took a moment to resettle his glasses onto his face and began reading. John tried to decode his expressions: confusion, intrigue, and a noticeable lack of surprise. Harold flipped the fax to the back, then front again, and reread.

“Bike messenger, Mr. Reese?” he asked at last, his tone carefully measured.

“DHL. Hand-delivered. Carter got a FedEx with a name and photo.”

Harold’s shoulders went slack and a blew out a long breath. It was another rare display of frustration and to John, looked like another weight added. Harold was already under enough pressure as far as John was concerned. He took two long strides to close the distance between them as if he could somehow signal that he was more than willing to help share the burden.

“Harold?” he said gently, resting a light hand on Harold’s shoulder. “Do you know this place?”

There was a short pause followed by a short nod. “I… am familiar, yes.”

“You’ve been there before?” John prodded.

“Hmm... Here, I’ll pull it up,” Harold said, deflecting the question as he limped to his computer. John followed close behind, Bear trailing them both. The deliveries had been disturbing enough on their own, but Harold’s reaction was setting John’s nerves on end.

“What I don’t understand is why this was sent to you,” Harold murmured as he typed in the information.

“Or from whom?” John pondered the obvious question first and how it might connect to the hand-delivered reservation for a week-long Airbnb reservation upstate. “What is this place, Harold?”

“White Lake.” Harold sounded distracted as the search results began filling his screen. “It’s a campground, a fishing spot, about two hours north of here.”

John dropped the take-out bag on the desk and leaned in closer as Harold’s words trailed off. On the screen was an aerial photo of a lake, thick with powerboats, and surrounded by dense trees. Harold clicked his mouse and brought up a second photo, ground-level this time, but out of focus and the frame partially obscured by, what looked like, a finger.

“You’ve stayed here before?” John asked. He tried to imagine Harold in this setting, with its bugs and dirt and strange noises in the dark.

“Here? No. This, if I had to guess, is somewhere on the east side of the lake.”

John had reached the end of his patience. He knew Harold would never lie to him, but he recognized the man’s verbal acrobatics for what they were. “What are you not telling me, Harold? Does this have something to do with Root?”

Harold’s body stiffened at the mention of the name and John instantly regretted his question. “I mean,” John continued, “what’s the connection here?”

“I would think that should be apparent, Mr. Reese.”

John tilted his head to the side as he raced to catch up to Finch. Someone who knew about Finch’s history at White Lake, and Carter’s suspect, and the falafel cart…

“Finch… are you saying your Machine coordinated all of this?”

“Who else?” He closed out of the search window and turned to face John. “Of course, we will cross paths with Root again at some point. She has unfinished business with me. What she does not have is your gift of improvisational thinking. Whatever she has planned will take time to… _plan_.” He offered up a dismissive snort. “She is a meticulous planner.”

This was the first real information that Harold had shared about his time with Root and the small insight into her motivations rattled John on some level. His lips tightened as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. “This is the Machine letting us know that if something happens to us, it can get the numbers to Carter and Fusco directly?”

“So it would seem.”

“A new contingency?”

“Possibly,” Harold said slowly then shook his head. “How long would it take for you to pack for a camping trip, Mr. Reese?”

Stone serious, John gestured towards his Plan B bag. “I’m ready to go now.”

“Camping, Mr. Reese. We’ll stop on the way to pick up something more appropriate once we’re there. In the meantime,” Harold said, a wan smile ghosting his lips, “Mr. Hayes should call our host and check-in. We’ll get a better idea of what this is all about once we get to the lake.”

John shooed Bear away from the desk as he pulled his blocked number burner phone from his inner pocket. He dialed and after a few rings, a woman answered.“Hello, this is John Hayes – I have a reservation at your White Lake property?”

“Mr. Hayes, it’s great to finally talk to you! I was afraid it was all going to be emails and faxes. So, you caught me just in time. We’re headed down now to drop off the keys. Maybe we can meet at the cabin and I’ll give you the tour?”

So it was a cabin, John thought, amused as he shot a glance at Harold. “Sure. It’s just the three of us – my partner, and our dog. If we leave now we’ll beat traffic. Let’s say 3?”

“Perfect! I think you’ll love the place. Here, let me give you the directions...”

A slight smile lingered on John’s lips as he ended the call. “Do you need to stop off anywhere to pack?”

“No, I’ve got a bag here, and the car is gassed up and ready to go. If you could gather some supplies for Bear, we should be ready to hit the road.”

John watched as Harold turned to disappear into the stacks of books, the silver buckle at the back of his vest bouncing and glinting in the dim light of the library as he walked. John gave a sharp shake of his head, forcing his thoughts back to safer waters—packing for a week in the woods with Harold.

He threw open the decorative gates that screened off a collection of reference books. Behind the books lay a hefty duffel bag that was crammed with a wide range of lethal armaments and behind that, his smaller bug-out bag. He pulled them both out and began assembling a few things: a change of clothes, toothbrush, a SIG Sauer P226, a Glock 17, the Remington 870 shotgun, and after considering all of his options, he unzipped Plan B and transferred his back-up M76 grenade launcher into his weekend bag for good measure. Bear needed even less preparation because his bag of kibble and blanket were already packed.

Fifteen minutes later, Harold returned carrying two matched leather bags. He set his stuffed overnight bag on the desk while he took a few minutes to collect a burner phone and laptop from the cabinet and slid both into his second bag, a worn leather satchel.

“Is that all you’re taking?” John asked, sliding his carryout sandwich towards Harold so that he could pack it for the road while John grabbed Bear's leash. “Who knows what kind of number the Machine sent us this time.”

“An internet connection, a pair of dry socks, and,” Harold took a second to unroll the paper bag and peek inside, “a ham on rye from the Lyric can take a man a long way, Mr. Reese.”

*****

John took the wheel of the stately Lincoln Town Car. For the drive, Harold split the sandwich between them, temporarily relaxing his rigid rules about eating in his personal car. By the time they finished, John sharing a bit of his sandwich with Bear, stretched out on his blanket in the backseat, they’d made it out of the congestion downtown and were settled into the ride. Harold fussed with the radio and eventually, he settled on the classical music station, not John’s first choice, but he held back his complaints for the time being. Getting out of the city was the easy part, but he wasn’t looking forward to the idea of listening to WQXR once they hit the long stretches of rural roads and orchards.

He got a short reprieve. Harold was in a talkative mood, a rarity these days, and they settled into an easy banter that ranged from how quickly Bear was taking to John’s tactical training, and Harold’s still developing Dutch, to how they needed to find a qualified and discreet veterinarian that could take on the dog’s primary care. About an hour into the drive, they ran out of conversation.

John let the silence hang for a long while before he slanted a look across the center console. Harold was asleep, lulled by the steady power of the luxury sedan over the interstate. With a soft smile, John reached down to switch off the staticky third movement of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3.

He pulled his eyes back to the road in an effort to give Harold some measure of privacy. Things were different this time compared to the last time he drove a long interstate with Harold asleep at his side. He had been doped with a strong sedative but it was only after John had him safely in-hand and on the road home that Harold finally dropped all of his guards and gave in to sleep.

Reston to New York, the steady hum of the engine and Harold’s slow, shallow breathing. During that last drive, John felt comfortable occasionally reaching across the seat to touch -to check Harold’s pulse, to check his temperature, test his reaction time. To reassure himself that Harold was there.

Things were different now. Harold was an intensely private man and John didn’t want the awkwardness of trying to explain himself should some dip or bump in the road wake him. As if it were possible for John to unlock any of his partner’s deep secrets with a few furtive touches to his warm, soft hand.

He stole another look. Harold had shifted in his reclined seat. His plain brown jacket had fallen open to reveal his plump thighs and soft belly, views normally hidden beneath bespoke layers and rigid respectability. It was a chaste peepshow at best, but one John indulged in for a moment, tracing his eyes up Harold’s body to his relaxed face, pressed to the tinted window, his lips slightly parted.

It was proximity, opportunity, and the ever-shifting line between friendship and something new that John couldn’t name yet. Something that warmed John through with equal parts happiness and fear.

There was another hour of road ahead of them. John gripped the steering wheel and drove.

They were ahead of schedule when he took the state route exit some 45 minutes later. The change in speed was enough to rouse Harold from his nap and in his peripheral vision John could just make out Harold’s yawn and his rough little stretch.

“We’re close,” Finch said, looking out of the window.

“About ten minutes.”

“Did you know, the Woodstock Festival was held here? Back in 1969, most of this was farmland.”

“From the looks of things, it still is,” John said, his eyes on the road and unimpressed by the sparse signs of civilization he’d seen so far. The hamlet of White Lake consisted of the main drag, the half-mile of state route that ran through the center of town, and a maze of unpaved trails snaking from it. They’d already passed the Bait &Tackle shop, Town Hall, the General Store, Ed’s Auto and Boat repair, the synagogue, and the church.

The houses were spread far and pitched deep back in the surrounding wood. John found himself focused on the GPS screen as the system navigated the way through the rural back roads until they reached the cabin. There was an older model station wagon already park in the clearing behind the cabin and John nosed the sedan in next to it.

Harold eyed the rental warily. “I’d assumed you were underselling it when you called it a cabin.”

“C’mon,” John said with a tight smile as he shut off the engine, “it could be fun.”

A middle-aged woman, dressed in denim overalls with short curled hair at the front and a flowing mane in the back, stepped out of the cabin. Seeing John, she raised a hand in greeting. “Mr. Hayes! I’m Dinah. I see you found the place okay?”

John smiled as he walked towards her, sizing her up as a potential threat. “You gave us good directions,” he said, shifting his gaze to the land and trees surrounding the cabin, set some fifty yards from the lakeshore. “So, this is the place?”

“Yes indeed, and you are gonna love it!” She fished the keys out of her pocket and handed them over. “Come on in, let me show you the inside.”

“Just a minute, Dinah,” John said and turned back to the sedan with a slight nod. Harold opened his door and climbed out.

“That’s your partner?” Dinah asked.

John’s expression hardened. “Yes.”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes wide as she watched Harold open the back door to put Bear on his leash before letting him out too. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she guffawed. “That’s life in the big city, I guess.”

John shifted his weight, ready to give the loud woman an authentic big city experience when she waved and took a few steps forward to meet Harold with an open smile. “I’m Dinah, it’s a pleasure to meet you! And you too,” she gushed, nodding at Bear then gasped in surprise when the dog took up his well-trained sit position at Harold’s side.

“He’s gorgeous,” Dinah said, clearly impressed by the dog. “Hell, they both are,” she added with a knowing wink. “Come on, let me give you the grand tour.”

John shot a concerned look towards Harold and was answered with an amused smile.

“There was a motel back on the state road,” John whispered as they lingered just outside the open cabin door.

“Now, now, Mr. Reese. This could be fun.”

“This was my late father-in-law’s old fishing cabin,” Dinah said, moving deeper into the cabin to make room for them. “My husband took it over after he passed, but it’s hard to get down here that often to look after the place, what with the kids and all. So, this year we decided to put it up on the internet and rent it out.”

“And how has business been?” Harold asked politely as he stepped inside.

“Not that great. You’re our first tenants all season. I think it’s the photos; they’re not good.”

There was a certain humility in Dinah's expression and, remembering the photos they’d pulled up earlier that afternoon, John found himself warming up to the woman again.

The cabin was a one-room structure with a small bath and kitchen adjoining the back half. There had been some attempts at modernization. The interior walls had been finished in rounded, light wood, and fitted with durable windows. Above, John spied two electrical light fixtures in the ceiling.

“There’s just the one bed, but if you need extra space, the couch pops out,” she said, gesturing to the release lever on her way past the metal-framed two-seater and rough-hewn four-top table at the front half of the cabin. The large, wood-framed bed, made up with a quilt and two thick pillows, was set against the wall connecting the small kitchen.

“Cozy,” John murmured.

“Running water, here and in the bathroom,” Dinah said once they’d all crowded together in the kitchen which was made up of a compact all-in-one stainless steel sink, refrigerator and countertop, and the squat, cast iron cooking stove with a stovepipe that ran up the wall and out a vent on the roof.

“It’s wood-fired and gets pretty toasty,” she said as she opened the various doors for the firebox, ashes removal, and water reservoir to show them both how to operate the ancient appliance “Heats up the whole cabin. During hunting season, you can get a good-sized turkey in there, with all the trimmings.”

“It’s a Round Oak Chief,” Harold said, opening the ornately decorated oven door and peering inside. “I haven’t seen one of these in ages.”

“So you’re a farm boy?” Dinah asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but I have had the pleasure of a few good meals coming out of one of these,” Harold said, stroking a hand over the ironwork. “Is there a woodpile outside or should we pick up some in town?”

“Should be,” Dinah said and led the way back through the main room and outside. Walking across the short woodland undergrowth towards a small covered shed set about six feet behind the cabin, she continued the tour. “The septic tank is underground over there so, you shouldn’t have to worry about that. And back here is the well and the water tank that feeds the house.”

“Potable?” Harold asked, inspecting the pressurized tank.

“State certified for drinking, cooking, and bathing,” she answered. “Now, back here is your electrical supply. It’s a solar panel mount…”

John left Dinah and Harold to look over the battery generators while he continued on to the shed. He unlocked the door and was immediately overpowered by the heady scent of the woodpile, and a vivid flash of a long-forgotten memory. John, aged seven, watching his father split wood for their little hunting cabin nestled between the clear waters of Twin Lakes and the shadow of Mt. Elbert. John’s job—collecting the logs as the fell from the stump and racing across the yard to stack them on the huge pile of winter wood.

John braced himself against the open doorway and raked his fingers through his hair. “Jesus,” he muttered. He hadn’t thought of that trip in years and what a time for the memory to come barreling back.

He took a moment to reorient himself on his task and began to inventory the provisions. Wood, lots of it, commercial-grade, bagged and stacked along the back wall and more than enough for their stay. A collection of hand and power tools hung above a narrow worktable, along with a collection of other miscellaneous shop supplies, but what caught his eye was the tarpaulin-wrapped bundle mounted on the far wall. He found a corner and pulled it back, exposing the clean white shell of a painted aluminum rowboat. “What do you know…,” he murmured, peeling the tarp back to inspect the boat for damage.

“John?”

John turned at the sound of Harold’s voice, followed by Bear’s inquisitive head poking through the doorway.

“In here,” he answered, reaching down to scratch the top of Bear’s head while he waited for Harold and Dinah to join him.

“Everything okay?” Harold asked as he came inside then stopped in the doorway when he saw John and his find. “Ah, this explains the trailer.”

“Where?” John asked, already making plans.

“Out by the generator,” Dinah supplied. “Have either of you ever been out on the water in a rowboat?” The was a hint of doubt in her question as she looked at her suited up city guests, lingering on Harold a bit.

“I’m ex-Army,” John offered. “I’ve done my time on the water in a lot worse than this. Motor or oars?”

“Oars. The motor seized up last winter, during ice fishing season, and Jimmy, that’s my husband, took it in to the shop in town, but that guy wanted an arm and a leg to fix it so...” she gestured towards a smaller wrapped bundled on the lower shelf of the tool cabinet.

“That’s a shame,” Harold said. “It’s a beautiful lake.”

“Well, you’re more than welcome to use it if you want and you can get a fishing license for the day down at town hall if you decide to go out. But remember from the contract, I’m not liable if anything goes wrong.”

Harold smiled. “We understand, Dinah. And, of course, we’d return the boat like we found it should we decide to take her out.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that. Now,” Dinah said, “do either of you have any questions, or need anything else?”

“Are we good for electric?” John asked Harold.

“With power to spare. And, there’s a water heater too.”

“Well, Dinah, I think Harold and I will be fine,” John answered, satisfied by what he’d seen so far.

“Great! Now, you have my number, call me if anything comes up. When you check-out, just leave the keys in the lockbox. Me or Jimmy will come down next weekend to pick them up.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Dinah, and thank you for sharing your home with us,” Harold said, pouring on the charm as the two of them left the storage shed. John left the boat for later in favor of grabbing a bag of hardwood for tonight’s fire. Bear trotted off towards the woods behind the shed while the rest of them walked back to the cars.

“Take care, and enjoy your vacation!” Dinah called once she was back in her station wagon for her own drive home.

John and Harold stood by the car and watched her leave, and once she was out of sight, finally relaxed.

“So far, none of this has gone as I expected,” John admitted, a rueful grin on his face.

“No?” Harold answered, his lip slightly quirked.

“No. I don’t think Dinah’s our number, and looking around this place, I can’t figure out where we should start looking next.”

“John,” Harold said, patting John’s arm. “I don’t think there’s a number here at all.”

“No?”

“No. I believe the Machine wants us to actually have that conversation you've been after. And, I believe the Machine is sending us on vacation for that very purpose, Mr. Reese.”

John’s brows inched up as he ran with Finch’s theory. “Farming our numbers out to Carter and Fusco? Booking this place online? Finch, if your Machine can directly manipulate people and situations, why did it let Root take you? Shouldn’t its number one objective be protecting you?”

Harold looked disappointed and John guessed that his question had smacked hard against another one of Finch’s moral boundaries. Even though he didn’t know exactly how the Machine worked, he knew what good surveillance looked like and he knew the Machine was more than capable of saving someone like Leon Tao and protecting Finch.

“No, John, that’s not how I programmed it.” Harold’s voice went low, his alert blue eyes staring straight ahead behind his glasses. ‘Looking after me, Mr. Reese, that’s the exact opposite of what I programmed it to do. The Machine’s priority is to protect everyone, not just me.”

“So what changed?”

“I think _you_ changed it, Mr. Reese,” Harold said softly. After a moment, Harold called for Bear and angled himself towards the passenger door. “We’re losing daylight, Mr. Reese. I believe we passed a shopping mall on our way here? We should make a stop and stock up for our stay.”

They had a good three, four hours of sunlight left, but he now that he’d seen the property, John also wanted to get there and back before dark. They needed some basic supplies and dinner, and time to set up Finch’s computers and a few perimeter cameras—just in case they were wrong about Finch’s vacation theory.

“Bear! Hier!” John called, opening the back passenger door for him.

“John?”

Harold looked across the car roof at him, and just then he heard it too. They both turned towards the thick woods behind the shed just as the cacophony of yelps and loud, sharp clucks pierced the air. Bear crashed through the trees in full gallop, a gaggle of wild turkeys hot on his paws.

“Bear!” John yelled and started running to intercept the birds.

“John!” Harold cried, limping at full-tilt towards the fracas. “Be careful!”

John met Bear in the middle of the wide clearing in front of the cabin and planted himself to the spot. He thrust his arms in the air and started flapping, howling, “Yah! Yah!” at the gaggle. Bear dashed past him and as Harold watched, eyes wide, the dog wheeled and sprinted back to John, taking up an attack stance at his side.

The larger toms, still some ten feet away from them, took flight, gliding low to the ground and veering out towards the lake. The smaller hens and chicks at the back of the mob slowed to a walk and set up a soft clucking among themselves as they left off the chase and turned back for the trees.

Harold finally caught up with them in the middle of the yard. “Are you all right?!”

“Af, Bear, good boy,” John said, brushing down his suit. “We’re fine, Harold. Hell of a welcome wagon, though.”

“Bears, bobcats, coyotes, snakes, wild gangs of turkeys—We’re in the woods, Mr. Reese!”

Harold had worked himself into a fit of dudgeon, his tie askew, his face flushed. Flustered was a good look on him, John thought rashly. Chuckling, he reached down and gently straightened his tie. “Good to know, Harold,” he said, giving his partner a soft pat on the belly, not worried about needing to explain his touch this time. “Guess I need to add a few more things to my shopping list.”

The burst of activity and rush of adrenaline had taken some of the edge off of John, much like his visit to Ochoa, the bounty hunter who killed Riley Cavanaugh, had done. Bad code recognized its own.

He whistled for Bear then, his hand at Harold’s back, shepherded them all across the yard to the car. It took over thirty minutes to drive to the mall that served White Lake and a half dozen other tiny hamlets and villages sprinkled in with the farms and orchards. John wrenched a cart from the corral, tugged a sanitizer wipe from the dispenser and gave the handle and basket a once over before handing it off to Finch. “Let’s start in sporting goods,” he said as he took up his position at Harold’s side, Bear taking the other.

They worked in tandem to fill the cart with basics like flashlights, sunscreen, and bug spray. Rounding the corner, John paused the cart and wrangled two sleeping bag bedrolls from the top shelf.

“We have beds, Mr. Reese.”

“Sure, but we’re in the woods too.”

“In a cabin in the woods, with beds and linen and pillows.”

“But the stars are outside, Harold.” John dropped the bedrolls into the cart with a smile. He expected Harold to push back on the idea, instead, his partner turned and walked back to the last aisle. A moment later he returned with two cans of bear repellent and tossed them into the cart.

They crisscrossed the store for bottled water, bottled wine, dog food, human food, a map, a copy of _The Flora and Fauna of Sullivan County_, and after a few minutes of verbal back and forth, a boxed copy of Battleship.

“Who plays Cribbage, Harold?”

“Not us, apparently,” Harold huffed.

“I would have been fine with a deck of cards.”

Harold raised a brow as he pushed their laden cart out of the toy department. “I’m not sure cards would have been as successful as you’re imaging, Mr. Reese.”

“Don’t tell me, Harold Ostrich is a card sharp on the side?” John teased.

Harold stopped short and John nearly walked into him, quick reflexes narrowly avoiding the collision.

“Hey,” John said, caught off guard when he saw Harold’s normally expressive face shut down. “It was a joke,” he said gently. “I’m not fishing for intel here.”

“I know, Mr. Reese,” Harold answered. A series of minute muscle shifts happened, a forced, bland smile, the slow release of tightened fingers over the cart push bar. “Your joke reminded me of… an old friend. My apologies.” Harold cleared his throat and forced a breath of warmth into his smile. “Why don’t we head over to the men's section. I should pick up something a little more comfortable for stargazing in the woods, with bears.”

“Sure Finch, anything you want.” John kept a bit of distance between them as Harold pushed their cart to the clothing racks. He'd hit a nerve, stepped on one of Harold’s secret tripwires. Maybe a joke he’d shared with Grace, or Ingram, or a family member that he may, or may not, have. Harold was a bottomless well of secrets.

They wrapped up the shopping. Harold paid for it all with his credit card, and John loaded everything into the back of the town car for the drive back to the cabin.

"I'd like to apologize for my behavior back there, Mr. Reese."

"You don't have to-"

"I do, John. You have been nothing but considerate since..."

"We don't have to talk about it right now."

"But we will have to talk about it eventually, after all, that's why the Machine has pulled us out of the rotation and gone to the relievers."

John gave a lopsided grin at the unlikely baseball reference from Finch, though, knowing how deeply the man kept his secrets, Finch could very well _be_ a baseball fan. Under any other circumstance, he would have followed that breadcrumb as far as it would take him, but he had the good sense not to pry now.

"You shouldn't have to walk on eggshells around me is what I'm trying to say, John." 

"I don't. You told me from the start that you were a private person." John's voice softened as he corrected himself, "a very private person. I'm not so private, and I know that gets under your skin sometimes."

"More than some," Harold corrected matter-of-factly. "But, being honest, that's good for me. It's been a while since I've had a..., well, since I've had someone who could stand up to my bad company and I thank you."

John mulled over Harold's words for the rest of the drive back to the cabin. The trip into town had taken longer than they’d planned and as John parked, the sun was already beginning its slow descent across the lake.

“You should probably get our fire up and running first, Finch. I’ll drag that wood inside then start setting up the security cameras. I was thinking one at the front door, facing the lake, one on the shed and the other facing the trail into the property.”

“That sounds good. At least we’ll get a warning before the bears attack,” Harold said dryly. “It shouldn’t take me long to get the satellite hotspot terminal set up so that we can patch the cameras into the monitors. And then, we can start dinner.”

“Hungry, Finch?”

“It has been a long day, Mr. Reese.”

“I’ll hustle.”

John popped the trunk open so that Harold could unload his gear. He’d come back after he got the cameras installed to take anything that was left into the house, but he did dig through the bags to find Harold's travel bags, the ice, food, wine, and bear spray, and carried those into the cabin to put away first, then came back out for the bag of wood which he left by the stove.

He let Bear run off-leash, confident that their earlier lesson in safe recreation would stick, though, he kept an eye on the dog while he installed the first camera, a small, custom Harold-built, motion detection unit. A little more work went into the second one. He retrieved the ladder from inside the small shed then stripped out of his jacket and shirt and climbed. It took a few tries before he finally found a good mounting spot on the awkwardly pitched plastic roof, but once he was satisfied that it was secured to the top of the shed, John came down and gathered the parts for the last camera.

There was an element of overkill to all the cameras. It was possible that Harold was right, in fact, John was willing to stake his life on Harold being right and that and there wasn’t a number out here for them. At the same time, he wasn’t willing to take the risk of skipping basic precautions, paranoia had its virtues.

“Come on, Bear,” John called, shooing the dog away from the base of the ladder so that he could hoist it onto his shoulder and walk across the clearing where the car was parked.

Trees lined both sides of the compacted trail that connected the cabin to the state road, the thick canopy obscuring the entrance. John leaned his ladder against a nearby tree and took a moment to study the available angles and branch-holds before narrowing it down to the sugar maple with the low hanging limbs—good visibility and sight-lines, less climbing. With a heavy groan, he lugged the ladder over and got to work.

Thirty minutes later, the second wide-angle camera was installed. Bear had abandoned him a while ago for better prospects with Harold when it became clear to the dog that standing at the base of a ladder and patiently waiting for somebody to throw a ball for him wasn’t that much fun. John didn’t blame him. Exhausted, and sticky with sap, he collected his discarded clothes and trudged back to the cabin.

“Do you have picture and sound?” he asked as he stepped inside, tossing his clothes on the couch.

“Almost,” Harold muttered, focused on fine-tuning the camera images. He was sitting at the table, head down as he typed away, the portable satellite case open next to his laptop along with a small external monitor that connected to the cameras. Bear lay at his feet, asleep. “I’m getting some signal interference, but I should have it cleared up soon.”

“Anything on Dinah, or any other plausible reason why your machine sent us out here?”

“Unfortunately no. Everything about our hostess, the husband, the kids, this cabin—it all checks out.”

John peeled out of his filthy t-shirt and tossed it on the couch with the rest of his civilization suit. “I'll check in with Fusco and Carter to see how their leads panned out. And after we get this place secured, we can kick back and enjoy our vacation. It smells great in here, by the way. What’s for dinner?” he asked, easing past Harold’s make-shift command center for the toasty kitchen. 

“I put a chicken in to roast. Oh! Can you check on it while you're in there?”

John took a minute to wash the tree sap and grime off his hands before hunting for an oven mitt. That Harold could even navigate the many drawers, slots, and valves that powered the old rattletrap was impressive, and far beyond the simple field stoves he was used to, and his esteem shot up another notch when he finally got the heavy door open and saw the golden brown chicken inside, legs and wings hanging off the breast, meat falling off the bones. A creamy cheese and potato casserole was on the second rack and John deemed it ready as well.

“It’s perfect,” he called, pulling the roasting pans out to rest on the stovetop. Bring on the bears and bobcats because it certainly wouldn’t be starvation that did them in this week.

Back in the main room, Harold had the wifi connections sorted out and the monitor showed a clear view of the trees and lake.

“Good work, Finch,” John said. “Food’s ready. Why don’t you wrap it up? I’ll unload the rest of the car and then we can eat, okay?”

“Give me a second,” Harold answered with a little flourish of keystrokes.

Stepping out into the evening dusk, John was struck by the view before him and the quiet. The sun spilled golden over the water’s surface, more like a painting than real life.

"You forget just how magical sunset is after being in the city so long. This… brings back memories," Harold said softly. 

"Good?”

“Very.” 

John nodded, afraid to break the spell. Sunsets were made to be shared, with good company or bad. He reached out in the fading light for Harold’s hand and started for the lake’s edge. It was a short walk, five minutes at most. John kept Harold’s hand in his and a ready answer should Harold question it—the night was dark and the ground was uneven.

But Harold said nothing, and they walked.

Gentle waves splashed onto the beach, and frogs croaked, and somewhere off in the woods, an owl called out.

“She said she’d see us again when she was ready,” John said, tersely.

“She’s looking for the Machine. She has to find it first.”

“Can she?”

Harold didn’t answer immediately, but when he finally did, the words came slow and deliberate. “It’s possible. Improbable, but possible. She is uniquely determined.”

John glanced over in the dim light. The next time they ran up against her she would be better prepared and even more dangerous.

“Well, she can’t have you. Or your Machine so, I guess it’ll be an even fight when the time comes.”

“I don’t want you to fight her, John. I want you to continue to save lives. That’s the mission.”

“Like I told your Machine, I won’t do this without you, Harold. Don’t ask me to.”

Harold didn't. Instead, he squeezed John's hand in his as they stood together on the shoreline and watched the sun slip over the horizon.

*

The UPS driver parked in the bike lane and flicked on his hazard lights before shutting off the truck and hopping out. He double-checked his manifest as he walked to the back of the truck to open the liftgate— another big delivery for the Thornhill Corporation. 


End file.
